;)
Thursday
Apr202006
Cleaning Season
Thursday, April 20, 2006 at 02:51PM
I haven't been this sad about the basketball season coming to an end in a while. Last year was such misery, the 2 and 19 stretch to end the season, listening to morons talking about how Clippers play real basketball, listening to my father curse at Tierre Brown, or as he liked to call him, "that damn number 5," before stomping up the stairs to his bedroom. But this season, this one's been special.
After Lamar Odom makes a sweeping reverse lay-up in a game last week, coming from the left side down the baseline, then using his 6-10 frame and long left arm to come up on the other side of the basket for two points, he has a big smile on his face that reminds me that they're kids, big kids out there, just playing a game. We all make big O's with our lips and stare at each other with approval. My mother has the same smile as Lamar and she says that this has been a good season. She talks about Kobe's 81-point game, still shaking her head about it because she was there in the living room with us that night watching the game against Toronto, on her feet as she walked back and forth from kitchen, so nervous that she couldn't sit still. She's like that the whole game during the playoffs. And after each basket that night, she clapped her small hands together and let out a "Waaaahhhh!" And she's talking about it again as my father tries to figure out how we can get rid of Luke Walton. "It's been a good season," she says, and stands on the two bamboo sticks that my father got her. She does this every night, balancing herself on the bamboo, swinging her arms up and down to lower her blood pressure, all part of my father's plan to keep her healthy and alive for as long as he can.
My father curses again as he sees Luke Walton enter the game and he digs into the Easter candy basket that J's mom has sent, pulling out a yellow marshmallow bunny.
"What is this?" he asks.
"Sugar coated with sugar," we tell him.
He eats it anyway and says, "This is all sugar."
"How's the fatso doing?" she asks.
"Shaq's washed up," I say.
Luke Walton holds the ball for five seconds, afraid to throw a simple pass, and that's enough for my father. "That damn number 4," he says and gets off the couch. He stomps up the stairs to his room.Our family moved to America in 1980, twenty-six years ago already. I can track the history of my family in this country by Lakers seasons. Magic returning from his injury filled second season only to throw up a last second air-ball in the lane against the Rockets in the playoffs. Sending Norm Nixon to the San Diego Clippers for a rookie named Byron Scott. Dr J dunking on Michael Cooper. Firing Paul Westhead and hiring Pat Riley. Losing to those ugly white guys on the Celtics again. And losing. Then winning. And the day I woke up at 4 p.m. and walked through the campus of UC Irvine to get to my film class, finding a seat in the back row where all the black, Hispanic, and Asian students sat, which was all of six, only to leave when I got sleepy again, returning to my dorm to a ringing phone. It was my mother, worried, her breath short, saying, "I was worried about you, I thought you'd be heartbroken." And I sat there confused until she explained to me that Magic had AIDS, Magic had AIDS, and she was worried that I was wandering around with a broken heart because Magic had AIDS, and I hung up and went to sleep, dreamed of eating chicken fingers in the cafeteria with some red punch.
She gets off the bamboos and sits down again, smile as big as these kids playing basketball, and when the game ends we leave, first my brother, then us, and my father runs down from his room to say goodbye, making sure we don't forget the soap he's given us, the pretty and fragrant soap he spent the weekend making in the bathroom. He'd given them to us before dinner before the game, a red one and a blue one and one shaped like a bear. Clear soap with little white chunks inside.
"What's that?" I'd asked him.
"Soap," he'd said.
"What's that inside?"
"Soap."
"Your dad makes soap now," mom had said. And we'd looked at each other.
He is now standing at the door waving goodbye as my mom hits him with an elbow, reminding him that he's forgotten to put his teeth back in and we make the short walk across the front yard with the new roses toward the gate, the soaps in my hand smelling like fruit and I look back over my shoulder and see him running back into the house to find his teeth and mom leaning against the doorway. It has snuck up on me, the season's end. This sweetest and saddest season is coming to an end, this season of cleaning with soap made by hands once strong enough to crush bricks, this season that gave us an 81-point miracle, leaving us to gather in a cold room inside a yellow house for each game that followed, praying for one more blessing to come.
After Lamar Odom makes a sweeping reverse lay-up in a game last week, coming from the left side down the baseline, then using his 6-10 frame and long left arm to come up on the other side of the basket for two points, he has a big smile on his face that reminds me that they're kids, big kids out there, just playing a game. We all make big O's with our lips and stare at each other with approval. My mother has the same smile as Lamar and she says that this has been a good season. She talks about Kobe's 81-point game, still shaking her head about it because she was there in the living room with us that night watching the game against Toronto, on her feet as she walked back and forth from kitchen, so nervous that she couldn't sit still. She's like that the whole game during the playoffs. And after each basket that night, she clapped her small hands together and let out a "Waaaahhhh!" And she's talking about it again as my father tries to figure out how we can get rid of Luke Walton. "It's been a good season," she says, and stands on the two bamboo sticks that my father got her. She does this every night, balancing herself on the bamboo, swinging her arms up and down to lower her blood pressure, all part of my father's plan to keep her healthy and alive for as long as he can.
My father curses again as he sees Luke Walton enter the game and he digs into the Easter candy basket that J's mom has sent, pulling out a yellow marshmallow bunny.
"What is this?" he asks.
"Sugar coated with sugar," we tell him.
He eats it anyway and says, "This is all sugar."
"How's the fatso doing?" she asks.
"Shaq's washed up," I say.
Luke Walton holds the ball for five seconds, afraid to throw a simple pass, and that's enough for my father. "That damn number 4," he says and gets off the couch. He stomps up the stairs to his room.Our family moved to America in 1980, twenty-six years ago already. I can track the history of my family in this country by Lakers seasons. Magic returning from his injury filled second season only to throw up a last second air-ball in the lane against the Rockets in the playoffs. Sending Norm Nixon to the San Diego Clippers for a rookie named Byron Scott. Dr J dunking on Michael Cooper. Firing Paul Westhead and hiring Pat Riley. Losing to those ugly white guys on the Celtics again. And losing. Then winning. And the day I woke up at 4 p.m. and walked through the campus of UC Irvine to get to my film class, finding a seat in the back row where all the black, Hispanic, and Asian students sat, which was all of six, only to leave when I got sleepy again, returning to my dorm to a ringing phone. It was my mother, worried, her breath short, saying, "I was worried about you, I thought you'd be heartbroken." And I sat there confused until she explained to me that Magic had AIDS, Magic had AIDS, and she was worried that I was wandering around with a broken heart because Magic had AIDS, and I hung up and went to sleep, dreamed of eating chicken fingers in the cafeteria with some red punch.
She gets off the bamboos and sits down again, smile as big as these kids playing basketball, and when the game ends we leave, first my brother, then us, and my father runs down from his room to say goodbye, making sure we don't forget the soap he's given us, the pretty and fragrant soap he spent the weekend making in the bathroom. He'd given them to us before dinner before the game, a red one and a blue one and one shaped like a bear. Clear soap with little white chunks inside.
"What's that?" I'd asked him.
"Soap," he'd said.
"What's that inside?"
"Soap."
"Your dad makes soap now," mom had said. And we'd looked at each other.
He is now standing at the door waving goodbye as my mom hits him with an elbow, reminding him that he's forgotten to put his teeth back in and we make the short walk across the front yard with the new roses toward the gate, the soaps in my hand smelling like fruit and I look back over my shoulder and see him running back into the house to find his teeth and mom leaning against the doorway. It has snuck up on me, the season's end. This sweetest and saddest season is coming to an end, this season of cleaning with soap made by hands once strong enough to crush bricks, this season that gave us an 81-point miracle, leaving us to gather in a cold room inside a yellow house for each game that followed, praying for one more blessing to come.
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[...] So, all I can do for tonight is go over my parents’ house and watch the Lakers get rid of the Suns tonight on their High Definition television and wait for the all Los Angeles second round series. All seven games on the corner of Figueroa and Olympic. [...]